


Partners In and Out of Crime

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Action/Adventure, Alternate Canon, Angst, Awkwardness, Banter, Canon Related, Character Study, Crack, Dark, Domestic, Ficlet, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mini stories revolving around Dan and Rorschach's partnership/friendship. Humor, hurt, comfort, drama, and everything in between. Mainly gen but with the potential for some slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Deeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best deeds are done spontaneously.

Dan is approaching the newsstand when he spots the ginger-haired hobo, scowling and clenching his fists at the salesman. His other hand, the one not cracking knuckles, is gripping his sign like he intends to use it as a weapon. For one moment Dan thinks he might have to intervene but by the time he's crossed the street the man is off, obviously having decided that picking a fight isn't worth it.

"What was that all about?" Dan asks.

In response, the little man swipes off his cap and runs a hand through his hair, throwing Dan a rueful smile.

"Ah hell," he says "stupid fool doesn't have enough money for his New Frontiersman." The vender huffs, trying to shrug. "Though why he cares about that rag I'll never know. It's just… he gets the thing every damn day! Come rain or shine! It's like some confound it ritual. Hmm, guess I'd be a bit peaked too, if I suddenly didn't have the funds for something like that."

"Yeah…" Dan watches the retreating back, hunched in disappointment. He hardly even knows the guy, only seen him around the streets once or twice. Even so…

He points to the New Frontiersman still pinned to the board. "Hey uh, how much were those again?"

The newsvendor raises one eyebrow.

"And umm… do you take checks?"

When Walter next passes the newsstand a paper is thrown his way. The vendor is waving at him with a somewhat manic smile.

"Here you go man! Some guy named Dreiberg paid your expenses for a month. A month! He's as crazy as you are and I love it!"

Rorschach always did have a nasty habit of "accidently" destroying Dan's copies of the Times, his way of none too subtly expressing disapproval. Dan never did figure out why, that month and that month only, the destruction of newspapers ceased.


	2. Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan – absentmindedly – invites Rorschach to a lecture.

It was probably the comfortable, post-patrol atmosphere that loosened his tongue.

"Oh hey, I forgot to mention! I'm giving a presentation on short-eared owls at the AMNH this Friday. There's free admission and all that, if you want to come."

He realized the implication – the stupidity - of his words the moment he said them.

Rorschach stiffened.

"Oh… that's not what I-I didn't mean-! It's not like I would know… oh hell. Never mind." Dan turned back to flipping burgers, preparing them a light meal after hours of brutal exercise. Despite his irrational fear, Rorschach remained seated and ate with as much gusto as ever. His misstep was similarly ignored for the rest of the night, leading to a productive conversation of absolutely nothing. But they'd had enough awkward moments surrounding their identities to just let things slide. Dan was open, Rorschach was not. Rorschach never asked and Dan asked too much. It was just the way things were. By Friday, the incident was forgotten.

Thus, standing at his podium and gushing about his favorite species' fascinating eating habits, Dan never noticed the man tucked into the corner. The one dressed in an old, green suit, amateurishly pressed for the occasion.

Dan didn't notice that this man, despite his need to remain inconspicuous, was the one who clapped for him the loudest.


	3. Come Indoors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan encounters a hypothermic Rorschach.

The biggest snowstorm that year fell on a night of patrol.

Dan had been expecting an argument, something fierce and scathing. Rorschach would throw a fit about staying indoors when there was so much to be done but even he would – eventually – have to bow to the logic of not dying out in a blizzard. Dan expected a scene… but nothing like this.

Six past eight and Rorschach had stumbled into his kitchen, so loose boned that, had he not known better, Dan would have said he was drunk. Already there was snow and ice caked into his trench coat, piled in the rim of his fedora. His pants were so soaked that the pinstripes were no longer visible, just patches of fabric that now looked more black than purple. Indeed, even with all the layers, his whole frame seemed to be one giant bruise, pummeled not only by the criminal class but now by the elements as well. To Dan, it seemed the perfect metaphorical example of how sick this world had become: heaven itself, punishing a man for trying to do what was right.

"Oh my god, Rorschach-"

Later, Dan spent a great deal of time categorizing his feelings regarding this moment. Was it more embarrassing that, as one of the city's strongest defenders, he'd been so easily caught off guard? No, after all, he was in his own home, supposedly with a partner and friend. It was far worse that he'd been clobbered by a man so weak as to barely be standing. Then again, Rorschach's fist was as cold as the ice that adorned it and just as lethal. There was no warning, other than the years of experience Dan had gained. He knew not to touch his partner but there was something about him that night – slumped again his counter, so cold that he'd stopped shivering, nearly seemed to have stopped breathing… - that had Dan reaching for him without a thought. To do what, he wasn't sure. Hug him? It seemed ridiculous. Maybe just to hold him, using body heat as an excuse to give his partner what he needed psychologically, as well as physically.

None of that mattered though. Before he could even brush his arm – the simplest of gestures - Rorschach had swung it back, laying Dan out with a punch to the jaw and sprinting for the basement door.

"Fucking hell…"

Dan's after him as fast as he's able, spitting a wad of blood out on the clean, linoleum floors. He half expects Rorschach to be a mile away by now but the stairs have slowed him down. He's three steps from the bottom, hunched over the rail, making a keening noise at the back of his throat.

How long had he been out in the cold? How long before the storm? It didn't take a genius to realize his partner wasn't well off, that there was more to his stealing food and shoddy hygiene than awkward social skills. Hell, Dan was awkward. Rorschach was just a mess. He could picture his friend all too easily, holed up in some crappy, heatless apartment. He could envision him having to use his trench for warmth and being constantly scared that someone would see him with it - make the connection. Dan could understand the toll that would have taken, coupled with the cold's unrelenting beatings. So how long had he been out there? Long enough for hypothermia. Long enough to drive the poor guy round the bend a bit, coming here only to hit his partner and make a beeline for the door.

Of course, he had come back. Some primitive, instinctual part of Rorschach's brain associated Dan's home with food, shelter, warmth. Sleepless and out of his mind, Rorschach had still shambled back here.

And that was good.

"Easy now, buddy. I'm not gonna hurt you…"

Bad move.

Anything at this point, be it assuring or not, was translating itself as a threat in Rorschach's mind. His overwrought body tried to take another swing at Dan – who had the sense this time to keep his distance – and only succeeded in throwing his weight backwards, stumbling over the last three steps.

Dan winced as he saw his ankle torque. That would need wrapping.

So bandages then. Ice. And pain killers. For the hypothermia there would be blankets, the electric ones, heating pads, a fire, broth later – much later – and hopefully there'd be no need to call the hospital (because he would, dammit. He'd make up a name, and a story, and later he'd brave the wrath of his partner's paranoia. Maybe even lose him, the cause labeled as betrayal. But if it came to that, he'd do it. Without hesitation). He'd have to find some clothes that had the best chance of staying on his friend's lithe frame. God help them both if Rorschach woke up in a strange bed, naked and unarmed. But it was a risk he'd have to take. His costume was positively soaked so everything, modesty be damned, would have to go.

Curled on the floor, Rorschach moaned and briefly lifted his head. Dan caught a glimpse of black on white.

Except the mask, of course. That would stay. No matter how cold it got under there.

"All right then…"

No use being cautious anymore. Jumping the last of the steps Dan pinned his partner, being as gentle as he possibly could. Rorschach's body tensed, and then arched, trying to throw him off with a surprising amount of force. Gloved hands scrambled at Dan's waist but the cold had made them clumsy, their joints seizing and forbidding purchase. Dan grasped them both, raising them above Rorschach's head in a move he preferred to save for lesser men. As he did his index finger brushed the space between sleeve and glove, where a sliver of skin was hiding. It was so cold as to be almost hot, hissing against Dan's touch. Rorschach cried out, two parts sick fury, one part pain.

"Jesus, man…"

How long? A few days? A week? They hadn't met up in a while. The criminals were getting smarter, if one could believe it. They'd begun to realize that there were hundreds of them and just a few of the masks, so they'd spread themselves out accordingly. After all, the Watchmen could only be so many places at once (except for Manhattan, but he was becoming more and more distant. He'd starting looking through people, literally, and Dan wondered how many victims of the streets met his foreign gaze instead of the tangible one they needed). So he and Rorschach had split, covering as much ground as possible for a month and only coming together for the bigger raids. That's what tonight was suppose to be – until the snow hit. So what had his partner been doing this past week? Keeping warm, or dying of cold because he was too stubborn to come and ask for help?

"You realize I'm going to kill you for this, right? You're an idiot. Jesus Rorschach, why didn't you come over? I bet you don't have heating wherever you live, do you? I bet you've been killing yourself right under my nose. But oh, you can't ask for anything because you're Rorschach. Terror of the underworld. You don't need anybody's help, huh? Of course not! God dammit, stop struggling."

Rorschach, against all odds, had managed to gain his feet. He pulled against the bonds of Dan's arms, half fighting to get free, half pulling back when the pressure was too much on his sensitive skin. All the while, spitting something intelligible and, undoubtedly, cruel. It was a string of words Dan wasn't sure could be termed a language. Grunts and growls, dispersed with random phrases, not all of which sounded like English.

"Is that Latin, Ror? Why am I not surpri –ouf!"

There was a sedative in the top drawer of his work desk, one of many he carried on his belt when they go out. Brute force was all well and good but when it came to taking down a mob of men high on drugs and adrenaline, sometimes it was best to have a little synthetic help. One prick and someone the Comedian's size would drop for an hour. Rorschach, the shorty, would be out for the night. Dan strained to reach the desk.

"Come on, man. We're going upstairs. Gonna get you warm and you can fight me later. Hell, you can even bitch about me giving you secret, evil solutions. 'What was in that, Daniel? Government drugs can't be trusted, Daniel. Scientists all in league with one another…' Blah, blah, blah. We'll argue sci fi over breakfas-Rorschach!"

Free, he made a lunge for the exit. In many ways, this was worse than their toughest fights. This wasn't the Rorschach of the streets, but a sick man frightened out of mind and sense. And even though he knew it was the cold, even though he knew his Rorschach wasn't in control right now, it hurt Dan each time he pulled away.

"Will you please let me help you-"

Later, Dan would manage to get a chokehold around his partner, dragging him past Archie and right into the path of a needle. It wouldn't be easy to get him up the stairs but it would be necessary - the basement's heating being far from adequate. Dan would, an hour later, make it to his own bedroom where the rest of the night would be spent playing nursemaid. In less than 48 hours his idiot partner would be back to his old self, avoiding any awkward conversation by complaining that Daniel had crappy cereal.

But that was okay. Because eventually the snow would clear and they'd be back on patrol, with Rorschach thanking him through well timed fists and a willingness to use his own body as a shield. Dan would receive a thousand 'thank you's, none of which would be verbal.

Before all that however, Dan held Rorschach around the knees, trying to keep him from fleeing through the tunnel. He'd think about what the cold had brought out and what was really going on in his friend's mind. Physically hauling Rorschach away from the exit, Dan worries that same question he's toyed with a hundred times before…

What made his partner more willing to brave the cold rather than endure the warmth of his kitchen?


	4. For You, On a Hot Summer's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rorschach finds a surprise in Dan's fridge.

Rorschach opened the fridge and drew back sharply, his mask shifting to something that might have been surprise.

"Daniel…"

"Hmm?"

"What's this?"

Dan turned to find his partner cradling a small, green Coke bottle. He held the drink securely between his gloved hands. Delicately, like it was something… precious.

"Oh! I found a small convenience store selling them. Cool right? I didn't even think they made those anymore. Didn't you mention once that you liked…?" Dan trailed off. Rorschach was swaying ever so slightly.

"Hey buddy… you okay?"

"Ernk. Yes." But his voice was rough, filled with a new kind of gravel that Dan had never heard before. Still sharp, but perhaps dulling a bit on one side. Just for him.

"Didn't know you drank soda." He said.

Dan smiled. "I don't."


	5. Squeaky Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan tackles a terrifying subject… Rorschach's hygiene.

"Hey buddy, if I ask you a question will you promise not to punch me?"

Dan sat at his kitchen table, playing host to the underworld's most feared vigilante. Said vigilante was currently making an impressive dent in a frightfully large plate of spaghetti. Dan's counter, doing battle against cheese-laden sauce, would never be the same again.

Rorschach hummed as a strand of pasta disappeared between his lips. Thoughtfully, he wiped his mouth on his trench coast sleeve. Dan winced.

"Impossible to say." He grunted.

"Oh come on! Surely you can promise not to sock me!

"No. Will punch you if deserving of it. Should know this by now, Daniel."

Scoffing, Dan rolled his eyes. Tipping his chair back on its hind legs he balanced there a moment, thinking. "I'm just going to be blunt then."

"Expect no less."

"It's really the best way to go about this."

"Hrm."

"All righty then - you stink Rorschach."

The forkful of spaghetti halted halfway to his mouth and hovered there a moment. Rorschach carefully, almost hesitantly, lowered the utensil back to his plate. He rubbed one gloved hand over his mouth again - spreading more sauce along the way – and finally nodded. "Didn't think you'd actually be blunt." He said. "Should have known better. Nite Owl doesn't shy away from the truth, Dreigberg shouldn't either." He nodded again, confidently. "Good of you, Daniel."

Dan let his chair fall back with a bang. "Good of- Rorschach did you hear me?"

"Henk. Stupid question. Obviously heard you."

"And you're uh… not going to punch me?"

"No."

"Oh. Well good."

Dan picked up with his owl saltshaker, running his finger along the pointed ears. Rorschach resumed the inhalation of his spaghetti. "So yeah... what are you going to do about it?"

"Do about what?"

"Rorschach!" Salt flew in every direction, some of it landing on Rorschach's trench. He shook it off without even pausing to lower his fork. "You aren't listening to me are you? Rorschach, you stink! And quite frankly it's getting on my nerves."

"No need to be sensitive, Daniel."

"Sensitive? You smell like curdled milk. And mildew. And those newspapers we find stuffed in the sewers. It's awful!"

"Didn't notice."

"I'm convinced you have selected smelling."

"Hm."

"And you know what else, man? It's not just annoying, it's distracting. You realize it's harder to concentrate on patrol when I've got you reeking beside me?"

For the first time Rorschach actually stopped eating, lifted his head, and seemed to pay attention. He stared at Dan for a long moment – and he knew he was starring because the ink blots barely moved. A neutral temperature, and a completely stationary Rorschach. It was a scary thing to contemplate.

"Ror-"

"Joking."

Dan blinked. "Uh no, actually I'm not." He put down the saltshaker, tapping it thoughtfully. "Did you ever take biology?"

There was a tensing, starting in Rorschach's wrists and working its way up his body. That, however, wasn't anything unusual. Rorschach tensed if anyone came within his three-mile personal bubble, eyeing the newcomer with all the love of a rabid mongoose. Rather, the interesting reaction was that he looked away, turning the mask from Dan and aiming it towards the stovetop. It was the same reaction he had whenever his education was mentioned – or the lack thereof. But, if there was one thing Rorschach was not, it was a liar. He'd refuse to answer your questions, flat out ignore them, or pummel you if you went too far… but he'd never outright lie. Not to one of his own, at least. So when he drew in a small breath Dan knew that whatever was said should be acknowledged and respected.

"Just a little."

"Great." Dan nodded. "Well, I don't know if your teachers got into this but smell is one of our strongest senses. You can recall deep memories just from catching a whiff of a related scent. And that doesn't even compare to some animals. Of course, birds don't really rely on scent that much. People never seem to get that though! They all think that if you handle a fledgling the mother won't take it back because they – I don't know – suddenly smell human or something but-"

"Daniel."

"Yeah?"

"Enough about birds."

"Oh… right. Sorry." Fiddle with your glasses. Best way to gain time. "Listen. What I'm trying to say is… I don't know what I want to say, really. I'm not trying to be mean-"

"Mm." Rorschach picked up his fork and as it rose, Dan's shoulders relaxed. Ror wouldn't be eating if he was actually mad. He'd be tossing the plate straight at Dan's neck and heading for the door. So yeah, good sign. "Not one to be mean, Daniel." He said, scooping up sauce. "I appreciate honesty. As said, too many shy away from the truth. They become self-deceptive, couching themselves in fantasies that quickly turn sick. Vile. Unnatural. It's a slippery slop, Daniel. Glad to see you still have your footing."

"Right…" So Dan wasn't a liar either? That was… also good. Okay. He'd focus on that, and just ignore all those other interesting opinions. They'd tackle those later. "So about your hygiene-"

"Sorry." Rorschach popped off the top of a box of parmesan cheese and began sprinkling pinch-fulls into his mouth. He didn't sound very sorry. "Water supply at apartment is unreliable. Also, it's probably filled with synthetics, not sure what though. Need to investigate further. But if smell really bothers you, should think of investing in nose plugs. Normally, they should be avoided at all costs – businessmen coat them in chemicals that will influence your thought process, make you buy their merchandise – but I'll keep an eye on you. Check your bank statements." He took a handful of parmesan and inhaled it.

That was oddly… sweet. Dan smiled. "Uh, thanks. But, I thought ahead! Already worked out the water problem, come on." Feeling childish, he dumped a bit of salt in his hand and threw it at his partner while running past. Rorschach grunted, catching it in the fold of his coat and then deliberately dropping it on the clean floor. Dan laughed.

"Come on, come on." He could hear Rorschach following, stopping only to pull down his mask again. Dan took the stairs two at a time, all at once feeling oddly excited about all this. It was a little thing, but something he thought Rorschach would appreciate.

They reached the second landing where Dan had his bedroom, the guestroom, an old work closet (that was quickly abandoned once he started in on the basement) and, directly in front of them, was a small bathroom.

"Ta da!" Dan gestured towards the door, distinctly aware that his partner would think he was nuts. Well, more nuts than usual.

"Daniel-"

Dan chuckled. He ignored a sudden urge to slap Rorschach on the back. Or punch his arm, or – heaven forbid – nudge him in the ribs. Manly expressions of affection just didn't work with him. "Here, just let me show you." He moved to open the door, allowing Rorschach his customary space to dodge in case of attack. Even within his own home, safe and cozy, they worked as an instinctive team.

"Ta da" Dan said more quietly, pointing to the top of the door. "See? The guy was here to replace – ahem – another lock and I had some bolts set up too. Three actually. Bit overkill, but I thought… never mind. Just, you can lock the door, right? And you'll be safe. Of course, you are safe here, of course you are, but…" Dan didn't need to see Rorschach's face to know he was rambling a bit. His partner was starring at the locks, unmoving, unspeaking.

"Look," Dan said. "I had the window blacked out, and we're on the second floor, so no one is looking in there. The bolts are just extra protection" - he would not use the term 'security blanket' with Rorschach, - "because I'm giving you this." Dan held out a small key, waiting an agonizing moment for his partner to take it. "It's the only copy. I had another but it was destroyed. Well… " A teasing grin, despite his best efforts, started to grow on Dan's face. "I really gave it to a jeweler to melt down so I suppose there's always the chance that he kept it. And maybe he'll figure out what it's to, then he'll somehow connect you with me and he'll follow you here, using the key and attacking when you least expect it." Dan lounged against the door jam, all fake seriousness. "It could happen…"

"But highly unlikely." Rorschach muttered.

"Right."

Lightly, with one gloved finger, Rorschach touched the highest bolt. It clanked against the wood and he drew back, as if startled by the noise.

"You did all this for me?" He questioned, voice softer than a psychotic vigilante's had any right to be.

"Of course. Who else would it be for?"

"Mm."

"I figured you could shower here, maybe after patrol. You usually hang around anyway, so maybe you could get cleaned up while I make some food. It's just a thought. I swear, that's the only key and I won't be using this bathroom from now on. I'll use the one downstairs, or the basement's shower… kay?"

They stood there a long moment, the silence moving from familiar to uncomfortable. Finally, Dan slunk back into the hallway and closed the door. Maybe he'd made a mistake. Rorschach – regardless of how much he cared for him – was a paranoid, so what made Dan think he'd be okay with showering in another's home – even if it was Dan's? Worst case scenario, Rorschach gives the key back and questions how his partner could know so little about him after so much time. Best case scenario, he just thinks Dan is an idiot.

Well, that wasn't anything new. And he'd tried.

The silence was thickening. Time for damage control.

"Right." Dan said, trying to smile. "It was just a thought. Listen, I've got more leftovers in the fridge if you're interested. God knows they'll probably just sit if you don't-"

"Daniel."

He'd been heading back down the hallway, desperate to end this, and for all his courage it took quite a bit of strength to look back at his partner.

"Yeah?"

Rorschach was looking at the key in his palm, the metal reflecting some of the light that skimmed off his mask. With all the lack of finesse one would expect, he dumped it into one of those endless pockets.

"I'll think about it." He muttered. Then, in a stronger voice: "More leftovers?"

Dan felt like he'd taken down a whole herd of knot tops – singlehandedly, blindfolded, and quickly enough to still make it home in time for his favorite TV show.

"You bet! Come on, I think there's Chinese tucked away somewhere."

"Fortune cookies. Should avoid them Daniel, full of deceptive sentimentality. Bad for you."

"Of course they are." Dan may have been light on his feet while heading downstairs, but it definitely wasn't a skip.

***

Four months later and the upstairs bathroom hadn't been touched. Rorschach may have avoided it but Daniel kept up his end of the bargain too, using only the other facilities. He didn't say anything else about the smell or Rorschach's appalling lack of hygiene, he just sterilized wounds and tried to schedule patrol on rainy days.

Even if the bathroom wasn't put to practical use, it was still a symbol of equal trust: Dan's gift as well as his promise, coupled with Rorschach's willingness to take the key. That, as far as he was concerned, was a huge step. Really, the more Dan thought about it, the less he needed Rorschach to use it. That just wasn't the point anymore.

But during the fifth month, while getting a glass of water late at night, Dan heard the tell-tale rustling in the kitchen. Bleary eyed and stiff, he headed straight back to bed. After all, Rorschach knew where the food was and would – hopefully – put the dishes in the sink and not on the banister. Or the couch.

It was only when he was in that halfway point between drowsiness and sleep that Dan took note of a new sound, this one foreign to him. It was the sound of water, hot and steaming, just two doors down from where he lay.

Smiling, Dan drifted off to sleep.


	6. Yardage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rorschach asks for a favor and receives something unexpected in return.

"Here."

Rorschach chucks the suit at the table, watching stoically as Daniel make a wild grab. He's a bit too slow and the edge of a pant leg lands in his soup.

"Reflexes need work, Daniel. Sloppy."

The glare he receives isn't terribly intimidating, not when it comes from a bespectacled man in a sweater and khakis. Even so, Rorschach keeps the knife rack in easy reach. It wouldn't be the first time they got into a tussle over one of his remarks. All of which escalated purely for training purposes, of course.

"Dammit, Rorschach." Daniel gazes at his ruined meal before giving up, dipping the suit leg into his water glass. Some of the tomato soup leeches out. "It's your own fault if this stains. And you realize I'm doing you a favor, right?"

He does. Two days ago, after they'd dealt out a particularly vicious brand of justice, Rorschach had been high on the adrenaline and had let slip that he had a job interview the following week. Nothing fancy, just another rundown tailor's with marginally better pay, but even without those details Daniel had correctly inferred that he'd need to look his best. This meant cleaning and ironing clothes that hadn't seen detergent since Dollar Bill was on the streets. And this in turn meant dry cleaning he couldn't afford. A washing machine he didn't have. Not even an iron that would potentially blow the electric in his entire apartment complex. At the time, these things seemed impossibilities.

Not that Rorschach cared. After all, they should be judging him on his skill set, not his appearance. He'd just finished resigning himself to applying in a wasted suit when Daniel had pulled off his goggles, flashed him a smile and said,

"Want me to do it?"

So here they were.

Daniel pulls the pant leg from his water glass, frowning at the persistent red stain. "I uh, won't take it to the dry cleaners," he says. They'd already agreed that handing out personal belongings was an idiotic risk, no matter how slim any consequences seemed. "I've got my washer upstairs, and an ironing board. Mom taught me, you know?" Daniel narrows his eyes. "I've got stain remover too. Nice job, Ror." He snorts, dropping the garment back onto the table where it settles pathetically. Both of their eyes are drawn to a rip in the knee and another, unidentifiable stain on the front pocket. Daniel winces. "And uh… you're sure this is the suit you wanna wear, huh? Anything else I can tidy up for you?"

He's obviously trying to be tactful and Rorschach is… appreciative. But he only owns two suits and there is a good chance Daniel will recognize the green one from his daylight wanderings. Too often he'd given the redhead coffee and bagels, always claiming that he'd bought too much. So yes, this suit, the blue one Daniel had never seen, was the one he'd be wearing.

Rorschach grunts.

"Right then… right. I'll just take care of this…"

They stare at one another. Until,

"I'll take awhile, Rorschach."

He grunts again, seating himself.

"And by 'awhile' I mean, 'not in the next five minutes.'" Daniel shrugs. "Sorry. I've got a load of whites."

So Rorschach makes one more inarticulate noise and hoists himself up from the table. He heads for the basement door, snatching Daniel's last jelly donut along the way.

"You're welcome to stay…"

"Hm. Thank you, but no. Things to do. I'll be back late afternoon. We can start early tonight."

"You sure that's safe?" He doesn't need to turn to see Daniel's skeptical eyebrow.

"Fog coming in. Will be more than enough to cover me."

"Huh." An arm sneaks into his peripheral, switching on the TV. Some trash starts talking about the benefits of moisturized razors for women. Rorschach scowls.

"When did you have time to check the weather?"

"No need. Can feel it coming."

"… Right." Which in Daniel's educated speech meant something more like, "of course you can feel it coming, nut job. I love you, but please don't infect me with your crazy."

Rorschach hums an affirmative. "See you, Daniel."

"See you, man."

***

As promised, Rorschach returns hours later. He'd been right, around lunch a fog had swept in, covering his movements from the apartment as effectively as any moonless night. Even so, it's only when he's entered the tunnel connecting to Daniel's basement that he allows himself to relax. Constant, constant vigilance.

There's a light off to the far left, near the workbench where Daniel stores his miscellaneous equipment. Coming from that corner is a sound Rorschach is intimately familiar with, but had never thought to hear down among Archie and Daniel's suit.

It's a sewing machine.

Daniel - now almost entirely Nite Owl, except for the cowl - is hunched over the worktable. Through the space made by his partner's arm Rorschach can see a swatch of blue that he immediately recognizes as his suit. It has changed though. Even from this distance the material is noticeable smoother, lacking the fuzz and wood chips that he'd gathered over the years. Even the pockets, whose bottoms had once bulged with physical debris as well as the idea of griminess, now lie flat. Daniel finishes the job, deftly weaving a pocket under the thread until its puckering hole disappears.

"That was useful," Rorschach says. He isn't sure if he means it as an accusation.

"Oh yeah?" Flipping a switch Daniel gathers up the suit. "How's that?"

"Think strategy, Daniel. The thugs, hookers, dealers - each is just a strand in a massive web, leading in. We want the spider at the center." Daniel stills, cocking an eyebrow at the unexpected metaphor. Rorschach ignores him. "This spider, he won't come to us - too dangerous - but we can come to him. Just one-" He holds up a single finger, pointing to himself. "One Mask. This Mask is overwhelmed by these strands, conveniently so, and is dragged to the center. During this journey something is left behind," his finger dips into the ever-present trench coat, revealing a small hole in the left pocket. "Pebbles, drops of paint, anything that will remain. Inconspicuous. When the center is revealed the Mask escapes, lies low, lets it all settle, then he gathers... others," he gestures towards Daniel, stumbling briefly over the word. "The web has stilled and now there is a path, invisible to all but that one Mask, just waiting to be used." Rorschach shrugs. "The spider is vulnerable."

"Huh." Throughout this speech Daniel folds the suit, carefully tucking the sleeves in so they don't crease. Now he stands, wrapping it in plastic for the trip home. "Is that how we found Logos's hideout last spring?"

"Yes."

"And that would explain your sprained wrist a week earlier."

"Mm."

"And you've read Hansel and Gretel." No response to that. Not that Daniel was expecting one.

"Well, regardless of how useful it was," Daniel smiles, plopping the package into Rorschach's arms, "it's gone."

Daniel's right. Rorschach stares at the pocket and, even through the plastic, he can see the neatness of the stitches. An excellent job had also been done in selecting the thread: it was obvious Daniel hadn't had the correct blue, so he had deliberately chosen one two shades darker. Now there was a flare of personality, with the stitches continuing all along the pockets' edge, far past the actual hole. It gave the allusion that this was a stylish detail, not a repair. Something Rorschach had never had in his wardrobe before. He was so lost in this anomaly that it took him a moment to realize that his partner was speaking.

"-machine. Wool is a pain in the ass. Seriously though, I hope you don't mind that I fixed the holes. And to be fair, you will need to look your best if this is for an interview-"

"... Don't mind, Daniel. I ... didn't know you could sew."

"Oh yeah. Sort of a necessity in our line of work, you know? The costumes and all. Hollis made sure I knew the basics before I moved on to the more practical stuff." He taps one set of knuckles against the plate of his chest. "Did you make your suit?"

Walter had, in the dead of winter, crouched in the cold of his apartment. His face was all he'd cared about so he'd stolen whatever bolt of cloth was least likely to be missed at work. Style was irrelevant. It was only when dawn broke and he had enough light to see by that Walter got a look at Rorschach's garb - a fascinating purple pinstripe.

"No," he says.

"I guess a suit would be pretty ambitious. I couldn't manage it. My preference goes towards oil and tools." To demonstrate, Daniel twirls a wrench deftly in his hands, like a weapon. Rorschach is once again struck by the merging of his partner's job and his more commonplace passions. For him, pieces of civilian and vigilante life fit seamlessly together. It was rare.

"You sew at all?"

All the time. It's Walter's job. Handling the clothes of strangers. Cloth, buttons, zippers - they were the only things Walter was capable of fixing.

"No," he says.

"You want to learn?"

The question is so unexpected that for a moment Rorschach's fingers slacken, almost allowing his suit to hit the floor. The next second his reflexes kick in but the sudden hunching of his body – the dip of his head – looks like a nod. Daniel takes it as consent.

"Great! It's a useful skill. I can show you the basics when we get back."

Daniel tugs the cowl over his head and, just like that, he's Nite Owl. All at once he's something not quite human, padding confidently where, before, his gait held a touch of hesitance. For a brief second, the silhouette in Archie's open doorway contrasts sharply with offer to teach him such a feminine craft, yet Rorschach knows that, given a few minutes, Nite Owl will have soft jazz playing from the ship's speakers and later that night, there would be hot chocolate with those ridiculous miniature marshmallows.

Nite Owl is a contradiction. He is unexpected.

"We'd better get going."

Rorschach tries to think of a way to decline the invitation, to tell Daniel that he already knows how to sew without revealing anything about Walter's life. The interview, letting that detail slip, had been bad enough. But getting out, it seems an impossibility. So instead, he gathers up his newly cleaned suit – being careful not to bunch it – and takes his place at Nite Owl's side.

"Ready?" His partner asks.

Rorschach nods.

***

Later that night, they've returned to the same workbench, the sewing machine humming once more.

"See? Threading can be a liiiiitle tricky. Left, down, up, down…"

Child's play.

"Now just place this here…"

Daniel's pinning was sloppy.

"I know. Seems lame. But it really is a handy skill. And it's uh… cheap too. Making your own stuff? Not nearly as expensive as buying it. Not that you couldn't buy things of course…"

Of course. Other then socks and underwear, Walter hadn't bought a piece of clothing in years.

Rorschach sits, watching as Daniel happily takes him through stitching a scrap piece of fabric. He nods in all the right places, yet wonders why he continues to sit here. There is nothing to be gained from hearing an amateur speak on a craft he's already mastered. But the basement is warm and there's still half a pizza remaining from dinner. There's also something about the way Daniel smiles – a mixture of contentment and pride.

He tells himself that it's best if Daniel know nothing of Walter's existence. Best to play ignorant. But there's a part of him, a part that's growing the longer he stays, that knows this is merely an excuse.

Rorschach doesn't want to think on this, so he doesn't question why he deliberately allows his fingers to slip against the fabric. Daniel winces.

"Yikes! Don't worry, I did that a lot at the start too. Here-" and as he shows him again how to steer his hands.

"Daniel?" he asks, not even bothering to look at the machine.

"Hm?"

"Thanks."


	7. Absolute Zero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before heading to Moloch’s, Rorschach does a test run in Daniel’s fridge and it leads to an unexpected confrontation.

It took four kicks this time to get through the lock. 

Good of Daniel, to finally take his advice. If his new locksmith’s merchandise required that he splinter the doorframe to get inside it would certainly prove useful in deterring the petty, less motivated crooks. It would do nothing against whoever was hunting masks though, and that knowledge gave a protective strength to Rorschach’s final kick. 

His partner was out for the night attending a documentary on aviation, specifically, the early construction of planes. Walter had spotted the advertisement in his New Frontiersman, tore it from the page, and within ten minutes had deftly slipped it into Daniel’s pocket as he passed by. Whether Daniel, after discovering the paper later that day sheepishly assumed that it had slipped his mind or, more likely, whimsically believed that its appearance was at the command of fate, hardly mattered. Walter and Rorschach both knew that the temptation of such a film would be too great. So Rorschach stomped the splinters from his boot, confident that he wouldn’t be heard. He then made his way to the kitchen. 

This route was well known to him. Hundreds of times before he had snuck inside, taking cold beans, soda, leftovers from the week before. This room was primarily his source of food but it provided numerous other essentials as well: shelter from the cold and clean air to counteract the city’s fog. Rorschach fiddled with the yellow dish towels, remembering when they were navy (used to bind a cut in his leg). Before that they had polka dots (broken fingers. Required splinting). The originals had, of course, been owls and that time there was no injury, but a man hiding the identity of Nite Owl should not have so many birds in his home, so they too were disposed of. Daniel’s tap water cleaned all those wounds. The vodka he thought he’d kept hidden on the top shelf had been used more for sterilizing than for drinking. Daniel’s toaster, with its tiny dent on the left side, had been his primary mirror for stitching and bandaging. This room was distinctively familiar. 

But Rorschach wasn’t here for any of that. For once his body was (more or less) intact and thanks to a wad of bills sulking under a pile of leaves his stomach was full as well. Daniel would be back by 10:00. 10:15 if he stopped for a milkshake. His time was limited, and thus Rorschach was glad that he wasn’t tempted by the food when he began pulling it from the fridge. 

He actually started with the freezer, throwing all the ice into the sink and then tossing Daniel’s meat, fruit, ketchup – everything, on top. Things that didn’t fit in the sink went on the windowsill, cocooned by the night’s chilling air. Soon the fridge was bare, gaping open. Slowly, almost as an afterthought, Rorschach removed the shelving as well, forcing it two inches lower then it should be. The scum he was observing wasn’t as well off as his partner; the space he’d be working in would be smaller. 

Now. Where to begin?

He needed to be facing outward. Obviously. He also needed leverage. A way to balance. Acclimation to the cold…

Forty minutes and only a portion of all scenarios had been worked through in his mind. But Daniel’s half drunk bottle of tea was gaining condensation, so Rorschach tipped his hat to the theoretical approach and decided to get to work. 

He was ducking into the fridge – three limbs gone and the fourth in the air – when something thin and white razored against the back of his neck. 

Rorschach dropped, scooting the last few inches into the appliance. His hands touched the back wall and, finding his leverage, his left leg changed its arc and swung back out. It said hello to the body that was steadily looming towards him, reverberating against a stomach. He pivoted, and in the same moment heard a shattering at his feet. A plate then, meant to bludgeon his head and nip at the arteries in his neck. A particularly ragged shard had already found its way into his attacker’s hand -- but Rorschach stilled himself. 

His pride kept him tethered for, during his turn, he’d recognized the set of those shoulders. Rorschach’s own shoulder’s relaxed. He was confident that he too would be recognized before the executioner’s axe came down. 

The shard hesitated right under his chin. 

“For fuck’s sake – Rorschach!” 

Rorschach plucked up the shard, which Daniel gladly relinquished to run both hands through his hair. His partner may have now been unarmed but his glare was as sharp as the pottery. 

“What are you doing here, Ror? I thought you were a burglar!”

“Hm,” he mused. “One that burglars your kitchen?”

“Well-”

“Knows your habits? Leaves the lights on? Wears the coat and hat of your partner?” Rorschach gestured to his clothes, recognizable in their stains and their stink. 

“All right!” Daniel huffed, shaking like a dog. “If you must know it’s pouring out there. I’m damn near blind with my glasses soaked like this.” He pulled off the specs to demonstrate, frowning when his sweater only smudged the lenses further. “I saw the door-” another glare, less threatening when it came from beady, unfocused eyes “- heard the noise, saw your silhouette,” Daniel shrugged, unapologetic. “You know. Our line of work, hesitation is deadly.” 

“You mean in your previous line of work.”

Whatever camaraderie they’d been rebuilding in those brief moments plummeted to a nasty death. 

'Bit like the Comedian,' Rorschach thought. 'Same could happen to Daniel; out of practice and mediocre locks won’t help him against a killer of masks. No help at all.' And yet, the swipe Daniel had taken at his head had been far from docile and he’d had been fully prepared to tear out his throat with the remnants of a plate. Whatever he had to say about his partner’s choices, Rorschach had to admit that he’d had a fight on his hands. Nite Owl wasn’t dead yet. 

He looked up but there was only Daniel, fidgeting under the weight of his accusation. He tugged at the hem of his jacket, spreading bits of rain everywhere, and opened his mouth to say – something. Apologize maybe. Or preach more about the benefits of “leaving it all behind.” Or maybe he’d finally reached his limit for the opinions of a right wing extremist, continually drowning in the shit of this great city. Enough with broken doors and hard, moral judgments. Maybe Daniel was finally telling him to get out. 

He’d never know, because in that moment Daniel got his newly cleaned glasses back on his face and caught his first, clear glimpse of the dismantled kitchen. 

Rorschach was expecting another shout. He got one. 

"Rorschach!” Daniel gestured wildly to a banana that had... exploded, for lack of a more accurate term, all over the counter. He may have been a tad hasty while throwing food here and there, some of the more messy substances having ended up on the floor instead of in the sink. Daniel scuffed a toe violently against what looked suspiciously like peanut butter. Hard to tell, now that he'd trekked so much water in.

"What. Did you. Do."

There it was. That was Nite Owl's voice. He might be getting the boot after all.

"Hm. No need for dramatics, Daniel."

"Rorschach-"

"Home early. Why is that?"

"Don't even THINK about distracting me!" Even as he said it though Daniel gestured towards the window, where sheets of rain were now coming down in earnest. There was a slight gap between the ledge and the rubber bottom of the windowpane; one of those forgetful annoyances that just never got around to being fixed. That gap provided cool air for Daniel’s kiwi and chicken cutlets but now a tiny puddle was inching around the foodstuffs. Daniel eyed the drowning poultry accusingly. 

“Storm, Rorschach. A storm. Power outage. Cancelled film. Rescheduled for next Sunday.” He ground out each word, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Your turn, ‘buddy’.” 

Rorschach shrugged, maneuvering himself to face the silverware drawer. He didn’t really think Daniel would attack him again, nevertheless…

“Practicing,” he offered. 

“For?”

“Mm...”

“Rorschach, I swear-”

“Moloch.” 

“Mol-?” All at once Daniel deflated against the kitchen counter and then just as quickly recoiled tight, like a spring. “Oh for fuck’s sake. I need a drink.” 

Wasting no time he want to the cabinet and took his “hidden” bottle from the top shelf. If he noticed that the liquid line was dipped a little lower than before (laceration to his palm, the top of an iron fence sliced right throw the leather of his gloves) he chose not to mention it. Rorschach massaged the wound against the glass Daniel handed him. 

“Alright,” he said. “Sit.”

“Don’t drink, Daniel.”

“Sit.” 

Rorschach sat. And though he placed his glass carefully on the table, Daniel only poured the amber liquid into one. Messily. Watching his partner stopper the bottle with one massive push, Rorschach pulled his face up past his lips. He could at least play at tasting the nightcap, if only to – hopefully – calm his partner. “Mad?” he questioned. 

“Mad? No, no, no, I’m furious.” Daniel toasted the wreckage around them. “But I’m also tired, and I’m not stupid, Rorschach. If you say this has something to do with Moloch then by god, I’m sure you have some warped justification for mutilating my kitchen. Never compromise, right? Even if the enemy is a pathetic old man who’s been out of commission for the last fifteen years. At least. Is it fifteen? Maybe a little longer. I’ve lost count. Guess that’s just another failure of mine, huh?” 

Rorschach bristled… and chose to ignore that last part. “Manson also retired, Daniel. Also old. Going to underestimate him?”

“Don’t you dare bring Hollis into this.” 

"Already involved. All of us.”

“Not me. Not anymore.”

“Always. You're trying to back away from that, coward." 

For a moment it looked as if he really would renew their fight but Daniel only slammed down his glass. What little was left of the alcohol splattered the table, forming blemishes against the linoleum. Like so many other things in his life, they were just another series of inkblots. Rorschach looked and saw blood, birds, and the possibility that he may be mistaken. Whether his mistakes lay in his trust or his accusations, he couldn't say. 

"There's a link," he growled, hands gripping the table's edge. "Moloch and Pyramid Transnational-"

"No." Daniel stood quickly, marching to the fridge. He began stuffing things back in without care - the peas, steak, a half eaten cup of yogurt - only to throw them all back out when he got a look at the shelving. With a curse he forced it back into its original position, leaving more scratches over the ones Rorschach had made. "I don't want to hear it," he said. "I'm done. So very, very done. If you haven't gotten that by now then-" he swallowed hard, leaning against the open fridge. The cool air rippled over his burning face. "Jesus, Rorschach. Who do you think you are?"

Just as quickly he too was on his feet, a step away from Daniel's back. 

"A fighter," he hissed. "Protector. Truthful.”

“Pro- no. Of course you are. Just – I’ve had enough, Rorschach.”

“Not all of us are blind, Daniel,”

“I said enough.”

“If you would see-"

"See?!" Daniel whirled, his face an inch from the shifting mask. His breath battered against the latex so the ink rippled outwards, endlessly. They were so close, but neither moved for the fear that if they did, something irreplaceable would warp. Not break, they were too far gone for that, but become distorted beyond recognition. It was balanced precariously between Daniel's right leg, freed of weight for a vicious kick, and the knotting of Rorschach's fist. 

"Do you know what I see, Rorschach?" Daniel finally whispered. "Hm? Take a guess. Because it's the same damn thing you come into contact with every night. This world is burning, so high up on its pyre that it can't see the bottom and it doesn't realize that its the fuel, feeding its own flames. It's burning, Rorschach, and we can't stop it. That's a fact." 

He grinned something horrible. "Depressing, right? It gets better. Amongst all this fire and ash there' a man. I'd like to think I know him. Pretty well at least. See, this idiot has costs me thousands in repair bills. Damn near eats me out of house and home. Does he ever throw out a 'thank you' here and there? Ha! Please. But really, all that? I could care less. Those are petty, material concerns. What really gets me is that this idiot, after so many years, is still the same, disloyal bastard I first met in that alley." 

Rorschach, experiencing a shock he’d never been prepared for, reacted on instinct. He lunged, howling, but Daniel was there, swinging him until his front hit the edge of the fridge, pinning him there like something fragile. 

"Disloyal!" Daniel screamed. "Because after all this time he still doesn't trust me!" He leaned in close, pressed against the stinking trench coat. Rorschach attempted a kick but felt his legs blocked. "To have his back?” Daniel continued, ragged with every word. “Yes. To patch his wound? Sure. But does he trust me to live my life in a manner that is both rewarding and honorable? Oh no. Apparently I haven't earned that kind of trust. Not yet. He judges me, ceaselessly, on all my moral values. For leaving the fight, for giving up... You think fighting is all about this?" Daniel seized one of Rorschach's fists, holding on as it bucked in his hand. "That throwing punches is the only way to combat this war? That didn't work!" He shoved his partner, backing quickly out of his reach. The two men stood, heaving and thrumming, while outside the storm raged its assent. 

"We tried that, Rorschach! I went out every night and I beat up all the knot tops, all the Molochs I could get my hands on. It barely made a dent. So now I'm trying something different." Taking a deep, deliberate breath that was held nice and long, Daniel snatched up his orange juice and tossed it into the fridge. He took another moment, just breathing. 

"I'm the example, all right?” he said. “Living my life. In this city. In a manner we want others to strive for. I AM what we've been fighting for. Why can't we have that for ourselves?" Daniel slumped, his body liquifying in its exhaustion. Every joint edged towards the floor with the same desire: to curl up and rest. Even if just for one moment. It was a slow tiredness, one that only grew in those who who'd taken on too much life in too short a time. The heroes. 

"I'm even doing a little extra, you know." Daniel said. "Humbly speaking. Apparently, it's a one man war against crime now." Smiling for the first time in hours, he looked up at Rorschach. "This man, he's still fighting the literal fight, with fists and a crazy level of determination. I wish him the best. Really, I do. But he can't do it without help and the relief he's being offered isn't a kind he recognizes. He needs a place to retreat to. Somewhere where there's food, quiet, and company that understands the meaning of empathy. I provide him with a lot of these things, when I can, and other stuff he doesn't even realize he needs. That's okay. I'm willing to give it all." Daniel shrugged, finding his partner's eyes under the mask. "I'll even play scapegoat to his bent ideas of loyalty. That's my fight." Bending, he grabbed another bottle of juice. "You helping me clean this up or not?" 

There was no hesitation. Rorschach’s hands shook but he dipped to pick up the nearest article. It was a carton of eggs that had tipped off the windowsill during their scuffle. The yokes ran sticky against his fingers but there, nestled against the edge, were two that were impossibly whole. Hesitantly, he handed them to Daniel. 

"Well whaddya know," he said, "only two remain," but for all the sarcasm soaking those words he cradled the eggs and tucked them onto the top shelf, between the wall and the cream cheese. The rest of their work was done in total silence. The salvageable went back inside while everything else - the broken, those dipped in condensation; threatening sickness - were tossed. In ten minutes time Rorschach peered again into the fridge, thinking that his little trick would go off much easier if Moloch's appliance was as empty as this one. Practical though the observation was, it left his lower back aching and an itchiness running through his eyes. 

Daniel stood behind him, their two coats brushing together. When he sighed Rorschach felt the exhale sinking into his bones. 

"Looks like I'll be going shopping," he said. 

"Want me to leave, Daniel?"

"…No. Not really." 

Rorschach breathed. 

Daniel stretched, wandering heavy over to the table. He eyed his bottled but resolutely put it away, choosing a glass of water instead. "I'm heading to bed," he said. "The extra blankets are in the cedar closet now, I really hate moths, and you know where the food is," he chuckled, shaking his head. Daniel let out a heavy sigh. "Should I leave the door open next Sunday? When I'm out again? If you're planning to come back and..." he gestured helplessly towards the fridge, "do whatever it is you've been doing."

Oddly enough, Rorschach felt his body curling in on itself. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, deliberately pressing against the cut on his palm. "No need for that, Daniel" he said.

"Because you'll just be breaking down my door again, regardless?"

"No. Not what I meant-"

"I know what you meant." Daniel nudged one soaked boot against the doorframe, wincing at the appalling squeak it produced. "Listen," he said. "I'll have another key made and stick it behind the loose brick, okay?"

They both knew which brick he meant. Years ago the respected Daniel Dreiberg, innocently, and with a nimble wrist, slipped bits of paper into that hiding place. 'No moon tonight - reschedule,' they read. Or, 'testing - watch step when coming down.' And when their enemies complicated their schemes the notes evolved into equal complexity; tiny rolls scribbled with runes only they could decipher. For a man who didn't own a phone and another whose conversations might always be overheard, these notes became essential.

"I kinda enjoyed those, you know," Daniel said. He shrugged and as his shoulders rose a light blush rose along with them. "Everything we did was sort of exciting. Important, of course, but exciting too. Leaving the notes always made me feel a bit like a spy." A tired but familiarly sheepish smile broke through.

Rorschach was silent.

"Right, I get it." Daniel sighed. "Blankets. Couch. Bed for me. I'll have an extra key made. You know, just because I want to." He turned towards the stairs. 

"Everything we do," he heard, a soft murmur at his back. 

"What?"

"Everything we DO," Rorschach repeated, louder this time. "It’s important," he paused, "exciting too, I guess. Hurm. We're not finished though. And..." the pause this time was more of a chasm. "Sorry about the door, Daniel," he finally said. 

"It was never about the stupid door." His eyes flicked towards the fridge. "I don't know what the hell it is you're up to and I don’t want any part of it – you got that, right?”

“Hm.”

“but keep safe and… give Moloch hell for us, yeah?"

Rorschach nodded. 

A moment later Daniel's voice drifted down from the top of the steps: 

"And you'd better come back!" 

***

He did come back, two nights later, with a light step and the rustle of plastic against concrete. Daniel, bleary eyed and dressed in flannel, opened his door Tuesday morning and found the bag of groceries. It contained simple things: butter (one stick), strawberries, eggs, and a miniature bag of flour probably found in a dollar store. Daniel put them reverently away. He then proceeded to accomplish a great deal in the week following. 

The extra key was made and slipped raggedly against brick (never to be found by Rorschach, never to be touched again by Daniel. When he and Laurie moved images filled his head of little boys stumbling across the hiding place years later, fingering the rusted key, and themselves imagining that it opened a door far more magical than his.) He opened his home that Sunday but Rorschach never showed. So instead of awkwardly puttering around his partner all night Daniel ate the strawberries with cream. He sat in the kitchen and, against his better judgment, entertained himself with the possibilities of Rorschach's activities, each more elaborate and violent than the last. 

What in the world was he doing to Moloch that involved his fridge? 

But he wasn’t a part of that fight anymore. Not the way Rorschach was. And besides, the answer to that question was as unfathomable as his partner's face or his true name… 

Until such a time that they weren't. 

For just days later the grimy mug shot of a redhead appeared on his TV screen, accompanied by the incompatible words: "Walter Kovacs." He ate the eggs that day. Scrambled four, fried two for a sandwich at lunch, three were shirred at dinner, and one went in a brownie batter. He ate all but two. 

Daniel wrapped the remaining ones in plastic, placed them on the top shelf, and solemnly shut the door of his fridge.


	8. What's In a Name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected meeting with Ozymandias drags up old memories for Rorschach.

February 1977, 2:08 a.m. 

 

He used to let them live. Back when he was soft. 

Once, just months before the Keene Act passed, Rorschach encountered Ozymandias on what would be his second to last patrol. It was the smell that gave him away; a subtle hint of lavender over an otherwise masculine scent. 

“Not your route,” he said and Ozymandias dropped from the shadows. “Should be more careful about what you put on in the mornings.” The two trudge along into the alley, Rorschach curling his body away from the creature beside him. 

“Perhaps. You have an excellent nose, Rorschach.” The world’s smartest man stretched like a newly woken cat. “Do you like it?” he asked, stroking his own neck. “I’m thinking of marketing it soon. Nostalgia. A cologne for the man among animals.” 

The significance of these words weren’t lost on either party. In a few short sentences Ozymandias had handed Rorschach multiple keys to his identity and simultaneously announced their worthlessness. Apparently, Rorschach would get to know the face of his masked companion soon. He’d just have to keep an eye on the latest mens’ magazines and their selection of colognes. 

“You’re quitting,” he said, the words sharp and oddly resigned. “Not surprising. Can’t even keep your route straight.” Now that he’d become accustomed to Ozymandias’s scent Rorschach noted another, denser smell. It emanated from the ally in waves that churned his stomach.

“I get the hint, Rorschach. No need to be rude.”

“Then leave.” 

“This isn’t really your route either,” Ozymandias said, thoughtfully tapping a finger against his lips. “But then again, you can’t afford to be running into Nite Owl Jr., now can you?” 

There was no noticeable change in the vigilante. Except, perhaps, that the ink blots of his mask shifted just a little bit faster. Pulling in towards his mouth they blossomed out in a chaotic spray of black ink and creases. 

“I wouldn’t want him down here anyway,” he continued. “Nite Owl... he is self-sufficient, I’ll give him that. All those pretty toys. Not very hard hearted though. Not enough for this line of work. Not like us.” 

Silence. The smell worked its way into their lungs. 

“Certainly not like you.” Ozymandias blurred and appeared five steps forward, well out in front of Rorschach. He turned and began walking backwards, keeping his companion in view. 

“I know about Roche,” he said and Rorschach tensed. He kept moving though. The smell thickened. “We all had some idea -- even the Comedian noticed your sudden change -- but I know, Rorschach. Poor little Blair. Poor Grice too. Fire is a terrible way to go, though I admit, I’m surprised that you gave him a way out.” Ozymandias lifted his left hand, drawing a line across his wrist. “Were you aware that he tried? Broke through the skin at least. But a hacksaw really isn’t the best for getting through bone. Tell me, would you have killed him if he’d escaped the house? Beaten him with your bare hands?”

Rorschach grunted; a vibration in the back of his throat. Through the mask he caught Ozymandia’s eye and held his gaze. The vigilante still strolled backwards, easily dodging a can he couldn’t see. 

“Why now?” Rorschach asked. “Two years since that night.”

“Well it’s like you said, I’m retiring. Need to ask my questions now, don’t I?”

“Hurm. Then why? Why do you care?”

It was foolish to ask the question when he did. The conversation, Ozymandias’s body blocking the view of the alley -- they succeeded in distracting Rorschach just enough for the scene to be a surprise. They rounded a corner and Ozymandias dodged to the left, giving him a clear view. The smell originated here -- urine, feces, and gunpowder overlaid with the choking warmth of blood -- and Rorschach couldn’t help but gag, turning from the mountain of bodies before him. He moved to lean against the wall, fully aware that it was just as much to remove himself from Ozymandias as from the corpses. 

“They had guns,” the vigilante murmured, looking not at his kills but at Rorschach. “Normally I’d have been happy to leave them for the police but, as they say in the movies, they left me with little choice.” He lazily trailed a purple boot through the blood. “You were right to disassociate yourself from Nite Owl, Rorschach. He wouldn’t have been able to handle something like this. Although, you don’t look too well yourself. The ink blots are slowing down. Have you gone pale, Rorschach?”

“Why?” he croaked, not entirely sure what the question was. 

“Because of Grice, Rorschach. Your very first kill. That moment... it showed me how alike we are. Wouldn’t you agree?”

***

April 1968, 3:54 a.m. 

 

Rorschach and Nite Owl pushed their way forward across a decaying rooftop. The mortar beneath their feet felt just as unsteady as the rest of the warehouse, crumbling and hinging beneath them. When Rorschach dodged a punch he heard a chunk of the adhesive come away, falling to the pavement below. However, this sudden drop registered only as a brief sense of loss: he could have used that stone to break his attacker’s leg. 

As Rorschach worked his way wildly to the left, Nite Owl engaged in a more fluid dance to the right. He lunged suddenly and tumbled into a roll; suit allowing for more maneuverability than his assailants expected. Their hesitation was enough. Nite Owl slashed the achilles tendon of one man so that he fell with a gurgled scream. The brute directly behind him took the brunt of his companion’s weight, giving Nite Owl the space to attach a clip to his belt. He then stood again, lazily inputing a code from his glove that spoke directly with Archie’s controls. The rope attached to that clip -- attached to that man -- hauled backwards, dragging a startled criminal with it. He skittered off balance, drew breath for a scream, and was promptly punched in the larynx. The man’s head dropped and Nite Owl disabled the rope, gently settling the man back on the rooftop. 

“How you doin,’ Rorschach?” he asked. The other guy on the ground was still screaming. Nite Owl casually aimed a kick to shut him up. 

“Done,” Rorschach replied. His own opponent went down hard on his knees, expression slack and wrists at odd angles. 

This was their normalcy. Rorschach was hyper aware of it that night; that they had established a routine. He could picture the rest of their evening mapped out before him: ropes and cuffs to detain their prey. The slow, agonizing climb down the steps. Each of them would carry a victim and they’d both go back for the third (“Easier to drop them.” He would say. “We’re not throwing them off a roof, Rorschach!” “Hm.”) His arms would carry a delightful burn the next morning, as would his throat from the scalding coffee he’s take in gulps, huddled in Daniel’s kitchen. Rorschach imagined the rest of their night with certainty and, perhaps, a bit of expectancy. 

Nite Owl obliged. 

“We should start lugging these massive fools down the steps,” he sighed. 

“Heh. Emphasis on ‘massive.’” 

Nite Owl nudged the protruding belly of one attacker. Rorschach knew there was a grimace under that mask. 

“Too right. Listen, I’ll grab--” 

But what Nite Owl ended up grabbing -- grabbing at -- was the knife situated in his belt as the door behind him slammed open. He was too slow. One more thug, somehow missed, had crept up the stairs and ruthlessly flung himself at the nearest enemy. In Nite Owl’s defense, there was little he could have done. Back to the door, off balance due to his playful nudging of the unconscious man’s stomach... Nite Owl quickly succumbed to the attacker’s choke hold. If anything, Rorschach counted himself responsible. Who knows what a timely yell could have changed. 

“Nite Owl!” 

As it was, it came too late. 

The fourth man pulled his partner’s head backwards, down against his chest, and Nite Owl’s hands were doing little at such an awkward angle. He went for a kick but the man only grunted under the impact. He was a mountain of muscle where his comrades had let themselves go. Rorschach could see the pressure being applied to his partner’s wind pipe and imagined the dark bruises that would form there; a strip of pain that would impede his voice for days. Rorschach took all this in as he feet sped forward and the thug’s own legs bent back. Rorschach thought he intended to throw Nite Owl to the ground. That wasn’t his intention at all. 

Rorschach watched as the man bent back, kicked into Nite Owl’s spine, and sent his partner tumbling over the roof’s edge. 

“Daniel!” 

The name was ripped from his throat without intention or thought. In the similar vein of reckless, unconscious decisions, Rorschach pounded towards the spot where Nite Owl was thrown; despite knowing, of course, that he’d already fallen. The thug only tsk’ed at the display, grabbing a key off his friend’s unconscious form before pounding back down the stairs. Rorschach, for the first time in his career, let a criminal escape. He didn’t hear the sound of boots on steps, or the heavy labor of breath as the man made his way out. He only noted the absence of his own heartbeat as he peered over the edge. 

Rorschach fully expected to see a body. 

He hadn’t expected to see it hanging from a rope. 

“Rorschach!” 

The breathe Nite Owl expelled in saying his name forced him to slip a few inches down. Despite his squawk and scrambling, Rorschach was glad for that breath. “Ro-o-o-or! A little help!” 

“Humph.” 

Rorschach huffed what might have been a relieved laugh. No one was close enough to tell. “Fine.” 

Really, the limited experience Rorschach had with physics told him that the feat shouldn’t have been possible. In the seconds before impact -- unbalanced, aching from the kick, desperately fighting the instinct to panic -- Nite Owl had managed to input another code into his glove, calling down the same cable to save him that had spelt defeat for his opponent. However, as Rorschach hauled him back onto the roof, Nite Owl’s whimper told him that a great deal of damage had been done. His left arm hung loosely, so limp that the shoulder was surely dislocated, possibly separated. Rorschach’s own arms, in turn, didn’t know what to do. Normally after such a close encounter he’d simply pat that same shoulder and they’d move on. That wasn’t an option now. He settled for kneeling. 

“Nite Owl--”

He groaned, a deep whine emanating from his chest. 

“Call Archie. We’ll--”

“No. Ah fuck, Ror.” Nite Owl groaned again, though not, Rorschach realized, entirely from pain. “My name. God dammit. He heard didn’t he?” 

Rorschach peered low, searching the visible parts of his partner’s face. There was no accusation there; nothing condemning. If anything, his mouth twisted with an emotion reminiscent of self-disgust. Though why, when the name had come from Rorschach’s lips, he couldn’t say. Nite Owl only gazed back steadily, genuinely wanting an answer. It was that honest gaze that gave Rorschach the strength to say, 

“Yes.” 

“Well, shit.” 

Yes. Shit. 

Nite Owl lifted himself to his feet, left arm cradled protectively. He tried to smile. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he managed. “Guy probably wasn’t even paying attention. Too focused on getting out of there, yeah?”

“And the key,” Rorschach murmured, doing his best impression of someone hopeful. At Nite Owl’s puzzled look he explained, “took it from him,” he pointed at the man to their right. “It was larger than normal. Thicker. For a storage container?” He nodded at his own suggestion. “Filled with what though?” 

“More weapons, if the downstairs of this rotting place is anything to go by.” Nite Owl winced. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he repeated. “Really, how much can you get from a first name anyway?” 

A lot, they both thought. 

“Well,” Nite Owl straightened fully, trying to put on a smile. “What’s done is done. Really, Ror, it’s fine.” It wasn’t fine. It was a rookie mistake. Neither of them said it. “Anyway, it’s looking like I’m down for the count! You’ve got your work cut out for you.” Nite Owl’s eyes drifted from the three men to the open door that lead to the staircase. 

He did indeed. Rorschach spent the next hour hauling each man down to street level, knocking their heads against banisters when they tried to wake. Nite Owl spent the time in Archie, calling the police and nursing his wound. By this time the pain had begun to truly set in and every once in a while Rorschach would catch a glimpse of his silhouette through the windshield, hunched in unnatural positions. This image -- stark against Archie’s lights -- solidified Rorschach’s resolve; what he’d decided the moment he’s said the word, “Daniel.” He’d gotten a good look: large, muscled, brown floppy hair, a tattooed dagger on his hip that unsheathed during his struggle with Nite Owl. The thug was recognizable. Rorschach needed far less than that to find him. 

And when he found him? What then?

He knew. 

***

February 1977, 2:22 a.m. 

 

‘No. You and I are nothing alike.’ he could have said. 

Or even, ‘That wasn’t my first kill, Ozymandias.’ 

That would have been a satisfactorily damaging blow -- to his network of information and, ultimately, his intelligence. But Rorschach didn’t say either of those things. He only grunted noncommittally and leaned further away from the bodies. 

“You’ll need more of that kind of resolve,” Ozymandias cautioned him, gesturing to his own massacre. “Things are about to change, Rorschach. I wouldn’t see you brought down by the coming events.” He turned, a little spin that allowed the killer to melt away and be replaced by a gentleman. 

“You should try Nostalgia.” he said, walking back down the alley. “When it’s out. I think you’d enjoy it.” 

Rorschach leaned his head against the brick wall. He inhaled, trying desperately to catch a whiff Ozymandias’s cologne, but all he could smell was blood.


	9. Can I Kiss You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "Can I kiss you?"

Owls were—supposedly—inquisitive. Or at least their ‘who?’ sound continued to capture the imagination, encouraging people to paint them as curious, quiet… even distinctly suited to dispense judgment. Dan had thought hard about all of this when he’d asked to uphold Hollis’ chosen profession and he saw no reason why those characteristics shouldn’t carry over into all aspects of his life.

 

“Can we maybe… partner up sometime?”

 

Despite how much the Comedian ribbed him, Dan wasn’t quite as meek as he tended to appear. Hell, they all seemed to forget that while they were roughing up petty thieves and druggies, Dan had the most consistent record of bringing down  _organizations_ , the intricate webs that had more strands than most could keep track of—and all the underlings to rough up as well. He’d developed a good balance of when to be forceful and when to hang back. Those instincts served him well now. Dan knew he’d won in the tilt of Rorschach’s head.

 

A small gesture. Just a glance back…but it was enough. Asking a question was the easiest way in. It gave Rorschach control of the situation. He held all the power in his answer.

 

Dan kept that in mind.

 

“Want me to drop you off somewhere else?” Dan asked next, weeks into the rigorous work between them. Beside his shoulder in Archie’s cockpit, Rorschach stiffened.

 

“Why?” he rasped. _So you can see where I live? Follow me home?_

 

“Maybe somewhere closer,” Dan acknowledged. His gloved hand flew up fast, forestalling Rorschach’s words. “Only because we’ve known each other for a while now. Yeah? And it’s under ten out there. With negative wind-chill. _And_ I know you’re not living anywhere near the spot you’ve got me dumping you.” He peered up through his goggles, wondering if there was enough humanity buried in Rorschach to bend beneath a pout. “Please?”

 

He was dead silent until Dan reached the familiar, frigid alleyway.

 

“No,” Rorschach spit and jumped down fast, leaving Dan to watch him hunch against the cold.

 

“…alright.”

 

Owls were supposedly wise too. Dan knew to be patient.

 

So he found another balance, a useful equilibrium between asking too many questions and not asking enough. More importantly, each held a tiny, heartfelt translation that Dan could only hope Rorschach was able to read:

 

 _Do you think we can take them?_ (I value your advice).   
_When the hell did you last shower?_ (You’re welcome to mine).   
_How hard did he hit you?_ (I care about your well-being).   
_Will you help me stitch this up?_ (Do you care about mine?)   
_Oh hey, do you like hot chocolate?_ (Yeah, I’d like to know _you_ ).

 

 _Will you let me drop you closer?_ (It’s okay to still say no).

 

Except that one day Rorschach said yes—in the way he always said yes, with a noncommittal grunt and a lack of punches thrown. Dan kept looking straight ahead, making sure Rorschach didn’t catch sight of the grin he really couldn’t let go of. He hovered Archie over a series of decrepit looking buildings and waved merrily when Rorschach cast him a suspicious glance. He’d probably still be walking far tonight, but not _as_ far. Progress was something Dan could appreciate, no matter how small.

 

Though, that was also the night he decided he liked “Ror” rather more than the mouthful “Rorschach.” Simply using the nickname was a complex question all its own… and Ror letting it pass was an answer.

 

They had something like a relationship now.

 

When they weren’t fighting crime Dan indulged his appreciation for knowledge; knowledge in any form, but particularly books. He was sometimes envious of Hollis’ memoir, if only because it was the embodiment of his perseverance and guts (though some would call it foolishness.) On nights where the watch was slow or Ror had slunk off to scout ahead, Dan tried to imagine a blank page and he’d ask himself, _How would I write our story?_

 

He just kept coming up with more questions though. And they’d taken on an entirely different slant.

 

_Why do you hate the Twilight Lady more than the others? Is it because of her interest in me?_

 

_Should I have done more for you after Roche? More than what I offered as a colleague?_

 

 _Was there ever a chance? At all? Be straight with me, Ror. That night in the basement, when I told you I was retiring… was it just the betrayal that shook you? Or something more? If I’d asked you to do the same—not just retire, but retire with_ me— _would you have come upstairs? Taken the bed instead of the couch?_

 

Dan smiled, though he turned away from his own reflection. He was somewhat disgusted to realize that he would have spent the entirety of that retirement on Ror, every second of it. If it had taken forty years just to get him atop the covers of his bed, that would have been a civilian life well spent.

 

Instead, they discovered retirement at the end of the world. Years had suddenly turned to moments.

 

Dan had vague memories of screaming at Adrian, not the formal ‘who’ of his namesake, but the more pressing, ‘why?’ Why, goddamn you, _why?_ Adrian didn’t give him answers, so Dan went back to Ror.

 

And if their life had been a story, the kind read to Dan as a child, the two of them would have gotten a very different ending. Earned it, as the true heroes do. The snow was positively stunning this time of night and for once Ror had willingly taken off his mask… in many ways is seemed picturesque. Like a fairy tale. Hands balled into fists, Dan realized the last question he wanted to ask him.

 

_Can I kiss you?_

 

In all honesty, the answer probably would have been no. There were too many other questions in between Dan’s last, “Are you sure you’re going to be warm enough?” and the shocking, “Can I kiss you?” Asking that might have ruined everything.

 

…Or given them something new.

 

Dan didn’t know, he never would. Still, down on his knees, shaking head to toe…he had to voice it, even if it was only to the blood splatter in the snow.

 

_Would you have kissed me?_

 

Owls had to remain curious after all.


	10. Bundle of Joy

**For the prompt: "I did a pregnancy test"**

 

Dan decided to get it over with right there, between the busted counter and the mangled stand of old postcards. It wasn’t like he’d get any more privacy at home... though it was sad that the eyes on him from outside were preferable right now. They weren’t accusing. Just dead.

 

A persistent Roamer slammed itself against the glass, startling Dan, making him jump. He wasn’t worried about them getting in. He’d been coming to this corner store for months now, just like he’d gone there for years before the world went to shit, and he knew the Plexiglas put up to deter New York robbers was now a defense in their favor. The door was well fortified and the Roamers didn’t have the intellect to find the rooftop entrance Dan always used. Still. No need to push his luck.

 

With a grimace he dropped his pants, then shucked them off completely, not willing to risk pee on one of his few, clean pieces of clothing—especially in a world without washers. It wasn’t exactly comforting. Standing there half naked, surrounded by varying degrees of destruction... the dead knocking at the door.

 

Dan shivered and got the hell on with it.

 

When he was done he didn’t look right away. Always one to follow directions. Instead he busied with using a pack of Christmas-themed tissues as toilet paper and trying to pull his slacks back over his boots. After the longest two minutes of his life, Dan finally looked down. When he did, the moans of the dead were—for once—drowned out a rushing in his ears.

 

“Shit,” he whispered.

 

***

 

“I did a pregnancy test,” Dan announced, descending into the basement.

 

There was absolutely no point in hiding it, especially since Rorschach wasn’t a fool. Hell, all survivors within a five-mile radius had probably heard Dan’s own not so silent freak out when his period didn’t show—if there were any survivors left to have heard it, of course. It was stupid to try and hide it. Dangerous too. And the answer was already right there, in the nerves coloring Dan’s voice.

 

Sure enough, Rorschach froze...then deliberately loosened his shoulders. He went back to sharpening his knife.

 

“Need to do something,” he growled.

 

It was Dan’s turn to freeze. As said, his partner wasn’t a fool, so Rorschach knew as well as he did that ‘doing something’ wasn’t an option. Not when there were no doctors or hospitals to turn to. Not even the Internet for the foolhardy. Fuck, Dan couldn’t even reach the _public library_ without attracting a hoard of Roamers. There was literally only one option for them here.

 

Steady, Dan marched over and slipped the knife from Rorschach’s hands, enjoying for a moment just letting his fingers play across the freckles there. Then they traveled up, skimming the frayed cuff of Rorschach’s shirt, up to his shoulder, along his neck where his pulse beat erratically, all the way to a stubbly jaw set in anger.

 

Except that Dan knew Rorschach, and Rorschach used anger to mask fear.

 

“We’ve faced worse,” Dan murmured.

 

There was no truer statement, and Dan didn’t just mean mob bosses or Keene Acts. The first time he’d changed in front of Rorschach had been when all this had began, before they knew that the disease passed through a bite or the ingestion of a Roamer’s body. All Dan knew at the time was that the _thing_ he’d killed (killed again?) had gotten all over him, brains and guts and the swamp that was now its bloodstream sinking into his skin. He’d torn the clothes from his body with little regard to the underwear and binder he revealed.

 

Dan wasn’t prone to fantasies either. He knew this could have been the breaking point between them—he saw the hollowed shock in Rorschach’s eyes in that moment, the unconscious clenching of this fists—if they hadn’t had much bigger issues to deal with at the time. If, in particular, splitting up wouldn’t have been the equivalent of a death sentence for both of them, their former work as costumed heroes making them uniquely qualified to survive this nightmare, _together_. It gave Rorschach time to cope, _forced_ him to and Dan never thought he’d be… grateful, for such a hellish outbreak.

 

The end of the world put things into perspective.

 

So Rorschach had dealt, in a way taking things better than Dan’s father ever had—or how he’d imagined their colleagues would have either. They kissed for the first time on a fire escape last June, Roamers above and below and the belief that there was no way out of this spurring them on (a sudden mass of shooting—someone else’s crisis—had been their salvation, drawing the Roamer’s away). They’d had sex soon after, with a shaking urgency that managed to overshadow both their insecurities and values. They’d continued as long as their safe haven corner store had condoms left... and then even afterwards, because they had so little left in this life as it was.

 

Both had known the risks the first time since Dan came back empty handed. In a way, they’d made the decision weeks ago.

 

“… and if the world needs anything right now, it’s something good,” Dan finished, and he learned forward, kissing Rorschach furiously, the lip of his mask rubbing with a familiar sensation against the bridge of Dan’s nose. Rorschach still wore it, just like Dan still wore his suit sometimes. They were comforts; similar to the painful grip Rorschach was digging into his thigh. It was a nervous, clinging gesture he indulged in more and more lately.

 

Dan firmly moved Rorschach’s hand from his thigh to his stomach.

 

“Okay?” he asked when they finally pulled back. It was more of an insistence than a question. They couldn’t afford to _not_ be okay, even in this.

 

So Rorschach nodded—just a quick jerk of his head. “Never compromised,” he agreed, voice gravely and filed with not just fear... but awe. “Even in the face of literal Armageddon.”

 

Dan snorted, somehow managing to feel lighter than he had in months.

 

“Let’s just hope the kid inherits your shit humor.”

 

 


End file.
